


Bleed

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Series: Bleed [1]
Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: April Showers Challenge 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-13
Updated: 2003-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 01:31:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Inspiration for this was <span><a href="http://ashinae.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://ashinae.livejournal.com/"><b>ashinae</b></a></span>'s wonderful vid "The Spirit We".<br/>Warnings: fisting. Some really strange and fucked up shit.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Easily You Come To Me, Summoning The Spirit We.)

  
"Ara-aragorn?" The name was forced past his lips with no conscious thought. A denial, hoping for confirmation that he knew would never come. This...this man - his king. King of the Rangers, king of men. Even the son of the Steward knew what the line of chieftain meant. His liege-lord...Isildur's Heir. The man who owned him. The man who would command his destiny. The man he had offended, insulted, degraded. Boromir flushed, groped for his pride and self-control, tried to instill something other than pain into his voice. "This is Isildur's Heir?"

Boromir did not need the mocking words to know that he had failed. Denethor had told him once of Thorongil and how he had been forced from Minas Tirith, to come again when he was again needed. And Boromir had admitted to that need. Perhaps...perhaps if he added more insult then Aragorn would not come, would not reveal his failure to an already destitute people. But of course not. Aragorn was his king and Boromir should bow. Instead he threw the last defense. A king unwanted was no king. A king undesired could not come. And, like a king, Aragorn took it in stride. Personal matters had no place in a species-wide conferance. A disloyal steward should not be punished in public. That could only come later. And Boromir winced in anticipation. He had been reamed once, for an infraction that did not bear thinking about. Strung up on the pedestal while the army stood in ranks as the officer of the day read the offences and punishment declared.

But instead of the lashing Boromir had expected, Aragorn merely smiled when he got him alone.

"You would be surprised how often that occurs," he said, as if it explained everything. "I do not look the prince and so doubts arise when my name is put forth. I have grown accostomed over time and do not fault you for your reaction."

"But why did you not say anything, my liege, on the night we first met?" Boromir stared uncomprehendingly at the other man, who only smiled mysteriously. Boromir continued, "if you wished honor, or acknowledgement of your claim, would it not have been better to identify yourself as my lord?"

"Perhaps," Aragorn allowed. "But you do not know me, Boromir. I oft grow tired of my role as chief and wish to revel strictly in my guise as merely another man. And as my claim is yet unproven, you have no need to be formal with me. Indeed, we are equals in that we are both heirs and have no proper titles of our own. You are captain and I am chieftain."

Boromir studied Aragorn long before replying. "Why do you wish to lower yourself, my liege?"

"Aragorn," he corrected.

"I cannot." To do so would be wrong, and he had already wronged this man. Had already denied his claim, and a claim supported by elves could only be legitimate. Boromir felt a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach as he thought about bringing this man home to Minas Tirith as duty demanded. The end of the line of Ruling Stewards, though perhaps Aragorn would be kind and subjugate the line again under the kings so it would not die out.

"You must. If we are to be brethren, then there can be no rank between us."

"Rank is what seperates discipline from lusts and makes us behave with proper decorum. I could not disgard it even if I wished to do such a foolish thing."

"I know it's your life and what Denethor has always brought you up to believe, but a man's proper place cannot come between prudence and foolishness. We are to be companions on the road, Boromir. We cannot stand on ceremony."

Boromir sighed, almost in despair. He had known the coming of the king would be trying, but he had never thought that the king would disturb protocol. Was protocol not what had kept the Ruling Stewards loyal to Gondor's absent king? "Is that an order, my liege?"

"You may consider it as such if it suits you to do so."

Boromir closed his eyes in acquisence. "Very well."

"We are in agreement, then?"

"Yes."

"My name," Aragorn demanded.

"Aragorn," and it was pushed past Boromir's lips with all the pressure that had not accompanied his first utterance of it. "Yes, Aragorn, we are in agreement."

"Good." And without further ceremony Aragorn pulled Boromir into an embrace, which Boromir returned stiffly. "Comrades," and his whisper was harsh, a command though they had forgone rank, and Boromir was conditioned too far not to obey. He left his lips gaping slightly for Aragorn to claim as his own, and his limbs to accept the coming king. A king must rule over his steward, and Aragorn seemed to be starting his his reign in the most unconventional of ways. Usually the mind was taken first, then the body. Aragorn seemed willing to forget that part and take what had been offered. "Poor Boromir," and that whisper was harsh as well and Boromir could not help but shiver beneath his king's touch. "All you ever wanted was for somebody to tell you what to do." Rough hands began to ghost across Boromir's back, searching for the place Aragorn knew was there. "But don't worry, Steward mine. I'm here, and all you shall ever have to do is obey."

Boromir nodded wordlessly as his breath was stolen from him, Aragorn's fingers having found their mark through all his layers. The sign of a servant and only a king could draw such a reaction from it. Blood began to seep into Aragorn's palm where it was absorbed like water. When Aragorn had deemed enough blood had been drawn to leave the king's mark, he moved his hand and the wound immediatly closed as if it had never been there. Boromir knew that the scar formed would be in the shape of the Tree, the sign that the Steward had been claimed, and shivered slightly in the shadow of destiny.

"Mine," Aragorn growled. "Steward?"

"Aye," Boromir replied and this time consent was neither forced nor unnoticed. Automatic, conditioned. Proper.

"Brother?"

"Aye," and consent not as automatic, more thought-out.

"Companion?"

"Aye." Still not a choice, still not a compulsion. Boromir began to feel freer even confined as he was in his king's arms.

"Friend?"

Boromir hesitated. It wasn't that such a thing wasn't _allowed_...but there was no record of it ever having been done before. "Aye," he answered finally.

"And mine."

That one was easy. "Always."

Aragorn's breath ghosted over Boromir's face as he leaned in to capture again what was rightfully his. "Your soul begs to mine to be punished for your insolence, but I'm not going to do that, _arandur_. You're too subservient as it is, and you surely did not get that from your father. I would never even think of claiming Denethor. He would never stand for such a thing. The pain would have killed him." Unwilling Stewards died. To survive was to be obedient. To bear the king's mark was to accept completely and mindlessly, unless the king called for an opinion. No king had called on his steward in an Age and memory of the mark had almost faded, the Ruling Stewards growing firm in their rule. But now a king had come to claim them again and Boromir felt a wave of hopelessness overtake him. He had done his duty and Aragorn had not found it lacking, but Boromir knew that his people might not accept duty as the steward had. Too long under the Steward's soft rule without the strong hand of a king. Gondor would have to learn once again what it was like to serve, just as Boromir would.

And the pain would have killed Denethor. He would never have accepted the mark which marked the steward as nothing more than a glorified slave. "As you say, Aragorn."

"Of course," and Aragorn's smile was gentle against his steward's eyelids, tasting the reluctance coiled taut beneath Boromir's enforced stillness. The smell of blood coated Aragorn's mouth as if he had indeed drunk the blood offering Boromir's body had given up. But such a thing was never done, though perhaps later Aragorn would sample the delicacy awaiting him. There was no denying Boromir's beauty and his complete surrender could lead only to complete trust. Aragorn would rebuild Gondor and he would do it with this man at his side. That was destiny, and Boromir's duty. Gandalf had prepared this one well. Willfull but well aware of his responsibility, and common sense that could be overpowered. Not like Faramir, who had been allowed to grow irresponsible. Gandalf had reported on that one's imagination and Aragorn had shuddered at the thought of claiming that one. He did not relish that thought, though perhaps Boromir could persuade his brother as to the prudence of servitude. "And anything I say you shall do?"

"Yes, Aragorn."

"Then your penance is to not merely allow, but to enjoy. I want you to relish my touch. I have awaited this moment since the moment our eyes first met, and now you shall do my bidding."

"What do you wish of me, Aragorn?"

Aragorn's lips on his was his only answer as Aragorn deepened the kiss, growl in his throat demanding that Boromir return the kiss. Boromir obeyed as best he could, the growing scar itching as he moved to allow Aragorn better access. Aragorn could do nothing but smile as passion overtook his steward, making the kiss grow bolder, making the steward reach around his king to pull him close.

"Please, Aragorn, I beseech you," Boromir whispered as the kiss broke. "Do not let me suffer. Let me..." but he could not finish, the emotions too new, the need too great, and his hand reached out to touch his king where he wished to pay homage. "Let me serve you," he said finally, letting the engulfing need to please this man overwhelm his senses long enough to miss the acquiescance that could only accompany such a request. Being on bent knees before this man felt so right and Boromir felt more stable than he had all afternoon. Aragorn's fingers had unfastened the necessary articles and Boromir bowed his head in obeisance, waiting for the command that had to come.

"Do your duty, Steward," Aragorn's voice said after a short pause, giving Aragorn's hands time to find purchase in Boromir's hair. "Pleasure your king."

Having Aragorn's cock sliding down his throat felt so right that Boromir forgot his nervousness for one glorious moment, the feeling of finally being complete throwing out any despair-clouded indecision from his heart. He had never done this before, unconsciously saving himself for a king he hadn't known was coming, but Aragorn's cock fit so perfectly, the motions coming so automatically, that Boromir felt no confusion. This was his proper place: on his knees before his king. Boromir cared not that they were in a public place and that any number of people might be watching, nor of the spectacle he looked, nor of anything but Aragorn's hands in his hair, rewarding and directing him at the same time. Demanding obediance as they pulled his head away from Boromir's prize, giving Boromir no time to feel sorrow at the lack before he was drawn up and Aragorn's tongue took the place of his cock in his steward's willing mouth.

"Steward."

"Aye."

"How would you like to enter me?"

Only Aragorn's arms kept Boromir from falling at the unexpected question. "Aragorn?"

"I told you that I oft grow tired of my role as king. I have no wish to dominate you right now more than I already have. Perhaps later I shall sample the delights of your body, but for now I want to feel you inside me. I want to feel my claim on your passion and know it is only mine."

"But..."

"Shall I make it into an order?"

Boromir nodded. "It would be easier that way."

"It would be easier if you did not have a choice in the matter?"

Boromir hung his head in shame and his answer was naught more than a breathy, "Aye."

"Very well. Steward?"

"Aye."

"Take down your trousers."

Boromir hastened to obey, unfastening his sword belt and letting it fall to the ground with a muted clang. His sudden nakedness revealed his growing excitement and Boromir would have blushed with shame were the excitement not mirrored in his king.

"I shall make no attempt at seduction, steward, though perhaps I shall later. Would you like that?"

"Aye," breathless and even more excited, with thoughts running rampant through his head as Aragorn turned his back to his steward and leaned over the balcony rail.

"Now, steward, enter me. I assume you know how it is done?"

No mockery in the voice, but Boromir felt the pain of his king's doubt. "Yes, Aragorn."

"Then do it."

Boromir looked around in panic for something to ease the way but found nothing and, indeed, Aragorn appeared not to be worried. "Aragorn..."

"Be not concerned. You are mine and can do no harm," slightly amused but no flash of pain, for which Boromir was grateful. The heat of Aragorn's passage disturbed him in a way he could not explain and he knew the moment that Aragorn felt pleasure. He backed up and hit the spot again, feeling satisfaction in the pit of his stomach that he had brought his king pleasure. Again, and again, and again, until Aragorn's controlled voice ordered him to move no more and merely be. Then Aragorn's voice coaxing him into release, into passion, owning him more thoroughly than any ceremony. Boromir fell shaking to his knees behind his king, bowing his head, awaiting his king's next word. Discomfort in his breeches as he anticipated his next command and splayed his legs for inspection. "Steward."

"Aye."

"Legs behind your ears," and a hand under his back to push him into the impossible position, carressing the new scar that declared Aragorn's ownership, a reminder to Boromir to do what he was told. His neck ached from the strain and his thighs were held in place by sheer willpower, and Aragorn's hold over Boromir's control. "You felt very nice inside me, Boromir. Very nice."

"Yes, Aragorn."

One of Aragorn's fingers found Boromir's hole and began to stretch it. "But I must fault you in one thing. You did not help me to my release."

Boromir shook at the anger and danger in Aragorn's voice. "No, Aragorn." In truth, he hadn't know it was expected of him.

"I shall let it go for this is our first time together," another finger, a third, then a fourth, exploring Boromir, finding out all his hidden parts. There was no part of him that was not his king's, and Aragorn would make sure that lesson was never forgotten. "But in the future when I allow you your release, I shall expect you to help me to mine."

"Yes, Aragorn."

A thumb, then a wrist, and Boromir wondered at the lack of pain. Would it always be like this with his king? But, no. The stories told of torture, of mutilation, of tears. Of stewards being torn from the arms of their lovers and given into marriage, but still as their king's call. The tales told of complete servitude and Boromir knew that if Aragorn was reviving the stewardship, then he would revive it completely. To be forever awaiting his king's whim...Boromir held himself still as Aragorn's fingers found their way further inside him. Boromir fought the urge to rock in place, to relieve the pressure on his spine, to ease the cramping of his thighs. But, no. Aragorn had not told him to move and so he would not.

"Tell me of your City," Aragorn ordered pleasantly and Boromir bit off a cry at the sudden pleasure the voice brought on. "Tell me of your first memory."

Boromir tried to ignore the probing fingers and the ache in his stretched limbs as he focused on obediance. "My earliest memory is of a summer's day."

"How old were you?"

"Three, Aragorn."

"So you don't remember me?"

"No, Aragorn."

"A pity. I was always so tempted to claim you then and there, but the thought of waiting for you all those long years stayed my hand. Perhaps I should have. Would you have liked that, Boromir?"

"Yes, Aragorn."

Aragorn laughed and inched his hand in further. "Now you're just humoring me. But that's fine. It's every steward's right to agree with his king. Now tell me of your father. What did he say about me?"

"That you were an heir, but he was not certain if you were *the* heir." Boromir paused, then ventured, "Aragorn?"

"Yes?"

"Why me?"

"If you want me to answer your question, steward, you are going to have to be more specific than that."

"Why did you not claim my grandfather or my father? Why did you wait until me?"

"If you don't remember me, you certainly don't remember your grandfather. Steward, Ecthelion was *old* when I knew him. He would never have lasted. As for your father, he would not have survived, and I would not have you grow up without a father. And so I left, to give you time to grow up and to live before I called you to duty."

Boromir remained silent for a long moment before whispering an acknowledgement. He was almost beginning to relax in the trying position when a sudden thought seized me. "And Faramir? What of him?"

"What do you mean, Steward?"

"How does he fall into your plans?"

"He doesn't. Oh, perhaps I will kill him," Aragorn mused, "but it might be more prudent to keep him alive. As long as he swears, of course. Can I count on you to insure that?"

Dizied by the thought that his king would kill his brother, Boromir had to take a deep breath of the cool autumn air before gaining enough control to answer. "Yes, Aragorn."

"But what would you do if I do decide to kill your brother?"

"I don't know, Aragorn," and Boromir cursed himself that he had to speak truth to this man and could not lie. Pain rewarded his efforts as Aragorn allowed his hand to be felt as it groped its way through Boromir's body, and Boromir screamed as darkness took him.

He awoke hours later in Aragorn's bed, his king's arms wrapped around him in a protective embrace. Aragorn had been careful to lay his Steward on his front so no pressure would be placed upon Boromir's sore backside but it still stung enough to be more than a dull ache but less than searing pain. Aragorn watched him through half closed eyelids, gaze weighing, finding fault.

"I much prefer you when you're sleeping," Aragorn said suddenly. "That way, you cannot say anything stupid."

"Yes, Aragorn," acquisance his only option as he moved to lay his head on Aragorn's shoulder.

"Go to sleep," a harsh whisper remisiscant of his earlier claiming and Boromir could do nothing but obey his king. Aragorn's arms felt right wrapped around him as Boromir slowly surrendered to his fate. Aragorn was warm against him and Boromir closed his eyes once more. To sleep against the morrow.


	2. (I am more willing to bleed, than I am to be apart)

  
Aragorn awoke before Boromir the next morning and took the time to study him in the growing morning light. Boromir slept the sleep of an innocent child, safe in a protective cocoon, and Aragorn felt disgusted with himself for what he had done. He had taken advantage of Boromir, allowed his baser desires to rule him. He had effectively enslaved the Captain of Gondor's armies, no matter that Boromir had been the one to press him to do so.

Aragorn sighed, wondering what Gandalf would tell him to do at this juncture in time. No doubt to be a strong master, but the Istari was not a man and did not understand what it felt like to have such personal power over another being. Aragorn was aware that, should Boromir ever grow to resent him, his steward would be dead in a matter of seconds should Aragorn touch him.

He had taken a proud man and tamed him. He had invoked magics that hadn't been used in an Age, the magic that bound stewards to the line of Elendil, magics that had almost been forgotten. The fact that Boromir seemed content with his new place only disquieted Aragorn all the more. Boromir acted like he had been brainwashed rather than claimed, though perhaps being claimed was more psychological than physical. Boromir did wear the tattoo that declared him the property of a member of the royal house, but he also was a product of hundreds of years of conditioning that told him that, should a king ever come, it would be his responsibility to serve. Boromir probably even knew where the soft spots were in all the rooms in the Citadel where a steward would have to kneel.

And Aragorn was going to have to be hard. He was going to have to be a master. Else, Boromir would die from neglect. A steward unwanted could not survive. Stewards served at their king's pleasure. Should the king ever be displeased, there was no use for the steward. They lived to serve and if they could not serve...

Boromir stirred under Aragorn's petting hand and mumbled something that might have been Aragorn's name, but might also have been the dream-talk of a young and lustful man. Half his age, Aragorn's conscious screamed at him. He had seen this one born, had felt the insane urge to steal him from his father and raise his future steward properly, had been so shaken by the depth of his feelings that he had fled Minas Tirith. Even in those days he had felt their connection, even when Boromir had toddled over to him and demanded to be put on his lap and told stories about battles and swords. Aragorn shook his head in disgust as he traced the curve of Boromir's cheek and remembered the child he used to dote on. He was nothing more than a disgusting excuse for a man, parading as a prince.

But he could not leave Boromir. A claiming could not be undone. In the old days, sympathetic kings had attempted to "free" their stewards, only to discover that said stewards did not survive long outside of their king's presence. A steward needed a king to survive, and to thrive. Boromir had been born a steward and have been revealed as one.

And so Aragorn would have to treat him like a steward. He could not be kind, not in the beginning. He would have to discipline Boromir, and daily, until Aragorn was the only thing Boromir thought of, the only thing he cared for. Aragorn had studied the histories enough to know exactly what he would have to do and did not relish the thought. But Boromir would have to be able to stand at perfect attention before the throne for days at a time, before the thronged masses, without moving at all. He would have to be able to kneel by Aragorn's chair, whether it was on one of the soft spots or not. Boromir would have to be able to tend to Aragorn always, at whatever time of day or night, whatever the request. Boromir would have to be taught self-control, and that would have to be done at the end of a lash.

Aragorn smiled grimly at that. There was not a lash to be found in Imladris, and on the journey, well, Boromir would need to walk on the morrow, would he not? So Boromir would be saved that indignity, and Aragorn would keep his honor. But it was cold comfort in the dreary morning after his first night with his steward. Aragorn now had a slave to care for, no matter that in time the slave would become his closest advisor. The tales were clear: the steward was nothing more, and nothing less, than the king's personal attendant. That the steward was always by tradition the king's closest advisor did not matter. Aragorn would have to be first a master, then a lover.

He sighed and his hand moved from Boromir's face to slip down his back, unconsciously caressing Boromir's mark. He had wanted at first to befriend the man, then his passions had overtaken him. The fact that Boromir had been almost proud of his mark, of the fact that he survived and was not found wanting, had only added to Aragorn's befuddlement. He had been swept off his feet the night before and was sorely in need of counsel.

"What is your will, Aragorn?" Boromir, awoken by the touch on the king's mark, murmured against Aragorn's chest. He began to kiss the flesh there in obeisance, ducking his head in what could pass for a bow enough to ease the pain in his heart at not serving his king at that particular moment.

Aragorn bent slightly to press a kiss to the top of Boromir's head, then regretted the action. He would kill Boromir if he was too kind. A new steward needed a strong hand, not love. Love would come later. First, the steward needed to be controlled, to let his king make his decisions for him. Only then could their relationship develop and the addiction grow less severe. "Fetch me my clothes."

Boromir wasted no time in obeying, rolling out of his king's embrace to find Aragorn's undergarments from where he had thrown them the night before. Boromir put them away out of a reflex he hadn't know he possessed before gathering up what he decided would be proper enough clothing for a son of Imladris to wear on an autumn's day.

Aragorn's hand darted out as of its own volition and smacked Boromir across the cheek where it had only a few moments before caressed it. Boromir rolled with the blow, allowing the force to drag him across the room, before standing and returning to his task. He did not ask for an explanation of the sudden brutality, and Aragorn felt a strange sort of satisfaction at that. Boromir accepted everything he did. Aragorn had known that the previous night, but it still felt good to see visual confirmation of the fact.

After a few moments, Boromir knelt next to the bed and handed up the garments. Aragorn deigned to leave the bed and Boromir moved to dress him. Aragorn slapped his hands away. "I don't need a valet, steward. Do nothing unless you are told to do so, do you understand?" Aragorn watched in horror as his steward's eager face fell and Boromir returned to his cowed stance that had so shocked Aragorn the night before. Boromir had only wanted to please him. Aragorn felt like he had just kicked a particularly vulnerable puppy who could do nothing to protest the abuse.

"As you say, Aragorn," and of course Boromir would obey him. Obedience was so deeply ingrained in Boromir that he couldn't _not_ obey. The hardest part, Aragorn understood, would be breaking Boromir of the habit of pre-emptively fulfilling commands. It was an admirable trait in an army officer, but was not proper conduct for a steward. A steward waited to be told what to do before acting, else, how could he be sure it was his king's will?

Aragorn dressed himself quickly, not condescending to look at his shamed steward. His stomach was telling him that lunch would soon be served and he knew that Boromir was as hungry as he. But Boromir would get no food this day, that was something they both understood. A steward would get no food until he went an entire day without displeasing his king, or until he was about to faint from the hunger. Usually the latter happened before the former, especially among new stewards.

"Boromir."

Boromir lifted his head and Aragorn could see unshed tears pooling there. He felt a pang of annoyance and anger. A steward could not cry. It was not allowed. If Boromir allowed a tear to fall...Aragorn shivered at the remembrance of what the histories had detailed. No. He would not allow himself to do such things to Boromir, especially not on their first day. "Aye."

"You will stay here. You will stand in the exact center of the room from now until I return. You will not move. If you do, I will know, and will be very displeased. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Aragorn," and they both knew Aragorn was giving him time to cry and compose himself, giving Boromir a free pass on his weakness, and they both knew it could never happen again. Aragorn stayed long enough to watch Boromir stand and place himself in the middle of the room, standing at attention, before fleeing his chambers.

He ate a quiet breakfast in the kitchens, ignoring all comments on the happening of the night before. He would have been foolish to suppose that Boromir's cries had gone unnoticed, and Aragorn was getting congratulations for breaking in his steward from all corners. Elves were old and had long memories and they knew what Aragorn must have done the night before, though some of the younger ones were giving him long looks, wondering if he had what it took to tame a steward. Aragorn did his best to return those glares without looking like he was seeking them out. In truth, he suspected that most of the elves had suddenly decided to distrust him. Until that previous day he had been one of them, merely an elf, though adopted. Now he had proven himself a man, and worse, a king of men, and had declared himself master over his kingdom. They weren't sure how to deal with Aragorn when they had all his life dealt with Estel.

So Aragorn sought out Arwen. Naggingly aware that he had left a crying man in his chambers to await the night, he tried to banish those thoughts and focus only on his beloved. Truth be told, Aragorn was worried. Of course Arwen knew about the king's steward, but to suddenly be faced with the fact that her future husband would spend more time with his slave than his wife could not be good, especially now that Elrond was placing even more pressure on Arwen to go to Valinor.

He found her sitting in a tree in her favorite grove, engrossed in a book. Her long hair was plaited back from her face and she suddenly looked very young in Aragorn's eyes. He knew intellectually that she was old by the reckoning of men, but she had never talked down to him, and so he always thought of her as being his own age. Now Arwen had taken the time to make herself look younger.

"Ah, Ranger, I thought I heard you coming."

"Your powers of perception are as wonderful as ever, O glorious Evenstar. May such a lowly mortal keep you company this fine day?"

"It is most definitely *not* fine, though you may come up." And indeed, a drizzle was upon the air, but after years in the wilderness, Aragorn hardly noticed. Once Aragorn had taken a seat on the branch, she studied him with a critical eye. "Estel, how long have you lived among elves?"

Aragorn sighed. "I know. I know."

"Try to be more discreet in the future? The last thing I need is to hear my betrothed torturing one of his species."

"He asked for it," Aragorn answered miserably. "I didn't want to claim him."

"And now you're punishing him for sins he's never done, all to make him strong for the days in which he will have to endure banter, pain, and mockings from a populace his family has served for an Age?" Arwen was quoting from a volume Aragorn could recall having studied, but could not remember specifics about it.

"Yes."

Arwen sighed. "Estel, you know I love you, but mortals confuse me so much at times."

"Arwen, believe me. If I could break the marking, I would. If I could free that family, believe me, I would. But I cannot."

"And Mithrandir?"

"He tells me he cannot, though I do not know if that actually is so. With Gandalf, you can never be sure."

"And so you must own a slave for the rest of his days, and make sure he breeds so his sons will serve our sons." Arwen shook her head. "Aragorn, I really don't know what to say."

"Give me counsel," Aragorn pleaded.

"What is there to say? You have a slave now. A slave that, by law and by nature of the binding, _must_ share your bed. A slave that now owns a small portion of you that will only grow over time. And I know what my father will say."

Aragorn nodded. "Yes. Why stay with a mortal who cannot give you completely of himself? But, Arwen, you knew I would someday have to do this."

"I am young. Only now, looking at you, do I realize how much of yourself you have given into Boromir. I have never before seen such a bond, even in its beginning stage, but my father has. I feel like I should probably trust his judgment, biased as it is, on what the end result will be. You will become dependant on him, Aragorn, just as he is on you. You will not be able to feel safe without your steward by your side. And when the time comes for his sons to be marked by ours, you could order him to kill the disobedient himself and he would not question your judgment." Arwen paused long enough to let Aragorn contemplate her words. Stewards were ordered into marriages that were only consummated on the king's word. Thus, most wives of stewards had other lovers. When the wives gave birth, it was the steward's duty to stand by and be the first to handle the child and to seek out the small pressure point in the child's back. If the baby lacked such a spot, it was no son of a steward and must be killed. The duty was not often given to the stewards, though certain kings had been known to force their stewards to do perform the unpleasant task. Of course, the pressure point did not necessarily make the child a steward, but it was enough to keep him alive until called upon. The histories did not chronicle the number of dead men, boys really, whose hearts had burst or been drawn out through their back because they would not serve. And later in life, even, such a thing could happen. In enough of an anger, it could be caused by a mere touch on the wrist without even approaching the back. That was sufficient reason for why Aragorn had always avoided touching Denethor, even in passing. To leave a steward heirless or, later on, sons without fathers, was too much for even a king to do.

"Do you regret your oath?" Aragorn hated to ask, but he knew it must be said. "I will release you from it should you so desire. To be bound to a mortal fate is no boon, Arwen. I love you too much, and hold you in so much regard, that I would not resent you for that choice. A mortal life is..."

"Harsh? Intense?" Arwen mocked. "Passionate?"

Aragorn's face took on a look of immense sadness. "Painful," he corrected mildly. "Tragic. You were not born to die, Arwen, so you can have no idea of the ache inside us, the strive for perfection, for belonging. To attain a state of perfection long enough to truly make a difference in another's life. That's what drives Boromir, and it drives me as well. The fact that we need to be perfect for each other, because we only have a small amount of time in which to live. Mortals are fleeting, like the change of seasons-"

"Yet I would give up all the Ages of the world to share those few years with you."

"So you say now," Aragorn pointed out. "In fifty years, what then? When I begin to lose my virility, when I begin to weaken, when my age begins to show? And what of Boromir, to know that I will never be only yours? What then?"

"I will never regret my choice. As it is mine to make."

Aragorn nodded. "I understand."

"No, you don't. But your almost-understanding is enough." Arwen went still and then blinked slowly. "Father wishes to see you. Berate you, I suppose. I think you woke him up last night."

"Lord Elrond sleeps?"

Arwen's smile was sly. "Euphemism."

Aragorn blushed. "Please convey my humblest apologies. And I beg my leave of you to attend to your lord father." Aragorn could well remember his own consternation at running into Lord Elrond's study to find Glorfindel bent over his foster father's desk, being impaled by Elrond's...Aragorn still felt the familiar heat grow in his cheeks at the look Elrond had given him before pulling out and asking what was the matter and why was it so urgent.

"Your leave is granted," Arwen said graciously and Aragorn jumped from the low-hanging branch to seek out his foster-father.

Lord Elrond always received Aragorn in his private library, and even now made Aragorn stand before the desk like an errant child.

"What exactly is your relationship with Boromir of Gondor?" Elrond wasted no time on pleasantries. Enough of them had been exchanged the day before for Elrond to allow himself to drop them for a long time.

"He is my steward," Aragorn said evenly, "and I have claimed him as such."

"And has he consented to this binding?"

"He initiated it, my lord."

"And what are you intentions towards Boromir?"

"I intend to mold him into the proper steward."

"And you do that by giving him pointless drills and exercises?" There was a hint of disgust in Elrond's voice, but an old disgust, like he had had this conversation with a host of kings, each in their time, and had not been able to dissuade any of them.

"Yes. He must learn to obey me in all things."

"'Perfect obedience'."

"Yes." Could Elrond break the binding, Aragorn wondered with a start. Did Elrond have the power to erase the magics that made Boromir forever a slave? "My lord?" he asked hesitantly, knowing that he was not in Elrond's good graces at the moment and Elrond had no reason to wish him well.

"Yes?"

"Can you break the magic binding the steward family to my line?"

Elrond's frown deepened. "Alas not, and therein lies the trouble! It was done on a whim by an Istari who has since left Arda, and cannot be undone by any but that Istari."

"So it is hopeless."

"Yes."

Aragorn's heart sunk. He had hoped...but there was no hope, not for him, not for Boromir, not if even Elrond said it could not be undone. "What should I do?"

Elrond fixed him with a pitying look. "That is for you to decide, Estel. He is your property now, and your responsibility. I would suggest providing him with food, but I've seen too many stewards broken in to know that you would not heed my advice, and so I will not say it. And you will not be kind or show the love I know you hold for him. You must follow your heart."

"My heart tells me to gather him in my arms and never let him go. But my mind knows that I would be killing him by doing so."

Elrond sighed. "Sit down, Aragorn. Pacing will do you no good." Aragorn sat. "I cannot offer you my counsel, but I can offer you my resources. Perhaps one of your ancestors had something to say on the matter. I suggest you devote your time to research."

Aragorn nodded in understanding. "Then I ask your permission to ransack to library, seeking information."

"Granted."

Aragorn spent the rest of the day in the human section of Imladris' huge library, stopping only to grab a small dinner from the kitchens to sate his hunger before returning to his research. As he expected, he didn't find anything more than impassive accounts of impassioned torture and abuse, along with figures on how long it took, on average, to adequately break in a steward. It was late before he finally conceded defeat and decided to leave the task for another day.

Aragorn returned to his quarters to find Boromir in the same position in which he had left him. Good. So he would not need to berate his steward for failure to follow orders. Aragorn sighed and began to shake out of his clothing, telling Boromir to drop stance and come massage his back. Boromir's unskilled fingers poked gracelessly at Aragorn's skin, but it felt wonderful nonetheless.

"What did you think about today?"

"You, Aragorn."

"Oh?" When no reply was coming, Aragorn turned halfway to see Boromir's face flex in puzzlement. So Boromir had not understood his meaning and was hesitant to risk punishment. "Tell me what you thought about. Let me allow your voice to wash over me and cure me of sorrow."

"I-," Boromir obviously had not considered the fact that Aragorn would demand to know his most private thoughts and the words came slowly. "I thought about the way your body moves, like you are so in control of your surroundings that nothing would come as a surprise to you. I thought about the way your hand had snaked into me last night, claiming me, and I felt shamed that I had allowed pain to overcome my senses," Boromir's hands paused on Aragorn's back as he considered his next words and Aragorn growled in response, pushing back against his startled steward. Boromir's face grew ashen and he continued his ministrations, carefully pressing down into each inch of flesh and twisting it into small circles to loosen the knots.

"Is that all, Steward?"

"Yes, Aragorn."

Boromir was on his back, head banging against the wall, before he realized that Aragorn had thrown him from the bed.

"Never," Aragorn growled as he stood and stripped off the rest of his clothing quickly, "lie to me. I don't care how small the lie is, you are not to do it. Understand?"

"Y-yes, Aragorn," voice small, fearful, unsure.

"I don't think you do."

Boromir checked his reflexive flinch as Aragorn neared, his eyes dark with anger and aborted passion. "A-as you say, Aragorn."

"Yes," Aragorn said, catching Boromir's wrists in one hand and pinning them above his head. "As I say." Aragorn grabbed a nearby piece of cord and tied Boromir's hands together securely. "Are you tired, Steward? Do you wish to rest? Don't look away from me, Steward. Answer me. Do you wish to rest?"

"Yes, Aragorn," naught more than a whisper and Aragorn nodded.

"Very well, you shall rest."

Boromir look up at him like he could not believe what he was hearing. "Aragorn?"

"Hush, Boromir, do not interrupt me, and never question me. Ever." Aragorn grabbed more coiled cord and tied Boromir's feet together, then his hands and his feet behind his back. Then he coiled the cord around Boromir's testicles and tightened, bringing the cord up to tie around the tip of Boromir's cock. The ends of the cord were secured behind Boromir's thighs, forcing his cock back to touch against his hole. The texts had said this was an effective way to break in a steward and Aragorn desperately hoped so. Seeing Boromir strewn on the hard floor like this was making him ache deep within his heart. Pushing his thoughts firmly aside, Aragorn stood and added a couple kicks to Boromir's midsection before leaving him prone of the floor.

Aragorn awoke to muffled sobs. A glance at the moon told him that there lacked several hours until dawn and he felt a flash of annoyance that Boromir had awoken him at such an hour. And with crying.

"Steward."

The crying stopped immediately and the silence that came suddenly from Boromir spoke of sheer terror and exhaustion.

"If you cannot keep yourself quiet, I shall have to bind your mouth. Would you like that?"

"No, Aragorn."

"Then be silent."

"Yes, Aragorn."

Aragorn felt suddenly guilty at the desperation in Boromir's voice. "Steward."

"Aye."

"Can you stand?"

There was a pause. Then, "Yes."

"Good. Do so." There were muffled sounds as Boromir moved himself first into a kneeling position, then a standing position. "Now come here." Boromir obeyed slowly, inching himself along the floor, careful not to fall over. When he reached the bed, Aragorn raised his arms and lifted his steward in with him. He rolled Boromir onto his front and bit the center of the mark, the tree glowing from the king's touch upon his steward. Boromir stiffened from the pain and only Aragorn's whisper in his ear kept him quiet.

"Now stay silent," Aragorn ordered and held his steward against him as he fell again into sleep, knowing that a command reinforced by the mark could not be disobeyed and so Boromir would not disturb him again that night. The pain from the bitten mark would serve as adequate punishment for Boromir's tears.

Aragorn slept until morning. Boromir not at all.


End file.
